


Wildling

by Jennie_D



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Post-Season/Series Finale, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: A boy, newly vowed to the Night's Watch, meets a Wildling in the dark woods.
Relationships: (but just in the background), Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 18
Kudos: 278





	1. Chapter 1

The woods were cold and dark and spiraled endlessly beyond sight.

He shivered and drew his black cloak tighter around his shoulders. The temperature was dropping, the sun sinking through the trees. He needed to keep walking, find the others. Quickly.

There were tracks in the fresh fallen snow, tracks he’d been relieved to find, tracks that should have led him straight towards his lost brothers. 

But they seemed to circle round and round, leading everywhere and nowhere all at once.

His breaths grew quicker, freezing in the air. 

The cold was constant, punishing. It was almost enough to make him wish for King’s Landing. 

To think, three months ago he’d never seen snow before. At least not that he could remember. 

A white shape darted through the trees.

The boy spun, heart pounding. 

There were wild animals here, and wilder men. 

Yes, the Watch was much friendlier with Wildlings since the Great War of the Dead. The Watch traded with Wildings, shared knowledge, talked. 

But not all Wildlings were so quick to forgive. And many of his new brothers had told him that the farther North you went, the more beastly men became. He’d scoffed, thought they simply still clung to old grudges. 

He’d been terribly eager to meet Wildlings. It was part of the reason he’d come North in the first place.

But now, alone in the forest, he was not so sure.

After all, his mother had taught him well what wild men were capable of.

She hadn’t wanted him to come here. Father had been dead set against it too.

He wished he’d listened. 

The white shape moved again, quick as lightning in the barest corner of his eye. He turned his head, put a hand to his sword, tried to move quietly as he could. 

The shape emerged from the snowy underbrush. Blood drained from his face. 

It was a direwolf. 

The sheer size of it was shocking, nearly large as a horse. He hated to think how long its fangs would be.

His mind raced. What had he been told about direwolves? Freeze so they couldn’t see you? Make noise to scare them away? Or try to fight them off?

Fighting such a creature seemed impossible.

He quickly cursed himself for ever coming here, for joining the Watch, for being so eager to see these strange lands. 

If he’d stayed in King’s Landing, he’d be eating a warm dinner with his brother now. His mother would be singing, his father watching fondly and waiting to read them some old tale. 

The wolf approached. Eyes red as blood.

Trembling, he drew his sword. Held it aloft in front of him. Tried to ready himself, bury his fear deep. 

The sword was shaking. 

“Put that down, boy.”

He started, spun, searched for the voice in the trees. A dark shape caught his eye, and he crouched quickly into a defensive stance.

A Wildling stood at the edge of the clearing. And there was no question, wild is what he was. Clad in rough cut furs, with long braided hair and a likely stolen sword strapped to his waist. There was even a line of strange symbols inked under one eye.

The boy tried to calm his breathing. Tried not to think of old stories of wicked men in the wild woods.

“Stand back!” he shouted, working to keep the quiver out of his voice. 

The wild man sighed. “We won’t hurt you boy-”

“I said stand back!”

His voice squeaked on the last syllable, and he cursed his lingering youth.

The man held out two hands, as if calming a skittish horse. The massive wolf turned, retreated to the Wildling’s side. 

Yet the boy’s breath still would not calm. He had been trapped in this ancient wood alone for hours, fearing all manner of monsters, and that fear now seemed to overwhelm him. 

The cold, the punishing constant cold, was closing round him like a tomb.

He gasped, coughed, gasped again. Stars burst before his eyes. 

The sword dropped to the snow. 

Suddenly there was a strong hand rubbing circles at his back. An arm thrown over his shoulders, guiding him towards a flat rock, sitting him down on it.

“Just breathe through it, boy. It’s alright. In and out, slow.”

Eventually his breaths slowed, evened. A waterskin was pushed into his hands, and he drank deep.

As he finished and wiped his mouth, he began to take stock of his surroundings. It had grown darker, the sun had nearly dropped below the horizon. And the Wildling was looking at him with concern written cross his features, the massive wolf relaxed at his feet. 

The boy felt himself flush. His first test facing a potential adversary, yet he’d panicked and had to be rescued by said adversary. 

Not heroic at all. If the Watch found out they’d mock him for life. The rangers would be ashamed of him. 

He straightened and gathered all the dignity he could. He cleared his throat, tried to make his voice deep.

“I thank you, ser, for your assistance.”

The Wildling gave a small half-smile that did not reach his eyes.

“I’m no ‘ser’ boy, but you’re very welcome.”

The kindness in his voice almost made it worse. It would have been easier if the man had teased him, at least then he could be righteously angry. The boy’s face burned in humiliation. 

He stood quickly, tried not to sway on his feet.

“Well, I’d best be off then.”

Walked to his sword, picked it up, shook the snow from it. 

A voice called from behind him.

“How long have you been out here all alone?”

He turned, but still found he couldn’t meet the Wildling’s eyes.

“Not long. I simply must rejoin my brothers -”

“Well,” the Wildling cut in. “It’s nearly dark, and plenty of beasts hunt out here. It’s not safe to wander about alone at night. If you make camp with me, I’ll help you find your brothers in the morning.”

The boy paused. He knew he should not trust a strange Wildling. Yet he could not find his way through these woods alone. And if this man meant to kill him, wouldn’t he have done it as he shook panicking, doubled over, helpless?

It would finally be a chance to talk with a true Wildling. Something he’d wanted to do for a long, long time.

So he gave a small, short nod. “Aye, that seems agreeable.”

The Wilding truly smiled then. “Right then. Follow me.”

He turned and began to walk into the forest. The boy sheathed his sword. 

It then occurred to him he and his rescuer had not been properly introduced. And while he knew this man was a commoner and a Wildling to boot, his father had always taught all men, regardless of station, should be treated with equal courtesy. 

That insistence had meant the world to the boy, for he himself had often been taunted for who and what he was. 

“Wait!” the boy called. The Wildling turned.

“What’s your name?”

The wild man seemed to hesitate for a moment, and cold silence hung in the air. The boy worried suddenly that he’d overstepped.

But after a pause, the man shifted.

“You can call me Wolfheart for now.”

The boy grinned, relieved. An odd name to be sure, but at least he’d not offended the man. He rushed to Wolfheart’s side. 

“I'm Sam,” he offered. “Sam Snow.”

His companion’s head turned sharply, and in the growing dark Sam missed the shock and sadness that passed through the Wildling’s eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

They traveled quickly towards some old caverns, only stopping once to catch some dinner.

Watching the Wildling hunt was an incredible thing. The man crouched low into the bushes, side by side with the immense wolf. Sam had hidden himself behind a rock, peering at them constantly. 

The Wildling had made some calls with his hands and mouth that perfectly mimicked Northern geese. When a flock had flown down to investigate, his wolf had pounced, bringing two down between his teeth. 

Hunting for food was still a new concept for Sam. In King’s Landing food always just seemed to appear as if from nowhere. And his father was not exactly one for sport. The first time he’d hunted was on the journey North to the Wall.

Well, he’d been on large ceremonial hunts with the Hand and his sons but that...that was not the same thing at all.

He’d hunted with the Watch a few times now. But it had been long work, difficult work. This Wildling made it look simple, he and the direwolf working together like one being. 

Sam watched them after the hunt was done as they walked together. Wolf and man never left each other’s side. 

It made him think of the old legends his father would tell, of whispers he’d heard at court, whispers of men and beasts with impossible bonds. 

They came to the caverns and ducked into a large cave. The Wilding lit a torch, bringing a warm glow to the old stone walls. 

They made their way down a long tunnel to an open space, where the Wildling passed the torch to Sam and began preparing a fire.

When he peeled off his gloves, Sam saw that his hands were covered in the same sorts of inked markings that decorated his face. It made him curious. He wondered how the Wildlings-

A giant furry body bumped his shoulder, forcing Sam from his thoughts. 

The wolf had followed them in, was turning and turning in restless, excited circles.

It made Sam nervous.

"Is he going to stay in here with us?” he asked, watching the wolf bound back and forth.

Wolfheart hummed. “Well, I can send him out if you wish, and I might do so anyway if he doesn’t calm down some. But you’ll be glad for his warmth as the temperature drops. It can get damn windy and cold in this part of the forest, even in these caves.”

Sam had spent enough nights freezing under his blankets to know the truth of this. But still, to sleep with such an enormous creature...

“And you’re certain he won’t attack in the night?”

The wolf jumped into some of the wood the Wildling was piling, scattering it. Sam stepped back, far away as he could. 

The man sighed and reached out, taking the wolf’s head between his inked hands, petting at his wolf’s ears.

“Right, let’s get you settled.”

Suddenly the wolf stilled. So did the Wildling. Neither made a sound for several moments. 

Then the wolf stretched, yawned, lay down on the cavern floor. The Wildling stood, went back to his work at the fire.

Sam stood frozen, shocked. 

“How did you do that?” he exclaimed. 

The Wildling shrugged. “We’ve been walking together a long while, I know how to calm him.”

But this didn’t quite satisfy Sam. After all, direwolves were not dogs. They couldn’t be tamed. Not unless…

“Are you a warg?” he blurted out. The Wildling turned to him sharply, eyes a bit cold. Sam sputtered, tried to backtrack.

“I mean, I was just curious. My father’s read to me about wargs, and my mother has told me stories, but I’ve never met a warg before. Well, the King, maybe, everyone says he’s a warg. But everyone says a lot of odd things about the King, and my father told me that most of them aren’t true.”

A fire lit under the Wildling’s strange hands. He stood, brushed himself off. Was quiet for a long moment. 

Sam worried suddenly that he’d overstayed his welcome and would be cast back out into the cold.

“Have you met him?” the Wildling asked suddenly.

“Met who?”

“Your King.” The Wildling’s voice rang quietly through the cavern.

“Oh. A few times. My father works for him, but the King - well no one really gets to see the King much.” 

“What was he like? Those few times you did meet him?”

Firelight danced across the Wildling’s face, casting his eyes into shadow.

Sam looked away. Shivered. “He was quiet mostly. Doesn’t talk much. Stares a lot. Just sort of...looks through you.”

It was honestly difficult to describe what meeting the King had felt like. The man was so imposing, so intense. He’d stared at Sam and Sam had felt as if his whole life was laid bare before him. He supposed it was normal, this boundless awe felt before his King. He was, well, a King after all. But it was hard to look back on it without shaking.

The Wildling sighed. “Stares a lot. Sounds about right.”

Sam looked back towards him, confused at his meaning. “I thought you didn’t have Kings here?”

"We don’t, and we’re better for it.”

“Then what do you-”

“Help me pluck these geese, would you Sam?”

Sam knew when he was being asked to drop a topic. He caught the goose the Wildling tossed his way, began plucking out the feathers.

It occurred again to him as he did so how unnecessarily kind this man was being. No Wildling was under obligation to help a foolish green boy of the Watch, give him shelter, catch him food. Even given the new peace between them, there had been generations of anger and blood. Yet this man helped him eagerly. 

“Thank you again, Ser Wolfheart.”

The man chuckled. “You can stop thanking me boy, it’s alright. And I’ve told you, I’m no Ser. Just Wolfheart’s fine.”

“Wolfheart,” he tried. It sounded odd. “Is that a family name?”

The Wildling smiled. “No. We don’t have family names like you southerners do. When we’re old enough, our clan gives us our second name, based on something from our life. Something we’ve done, something we are. Wolfheart’s mine.”

“Oh!” Sam exclaimed. “I’ve heard of this! Like that Wildling hero from the Great War! Oh, what was his name, damn it. Giantsbane! That’s it!”

The Wildling’s eyes darted towards him. “Yes, Giantsbane is such a name,” he said evenly.

“I’ve heard he was named that because he brought down a horrible dead giant during the Battle of Winterfell.”

The Wildling snorted. “Giantsbane was his name long before that. And Lyanna Mormont slew that giant.”

“How do you know?”

The Wildling shifted a bit in his furs. “I know many people who fought there. They saw her do it with their own eyes.”

Sam huffed. “Then how did he get the name Giantsbane?”

“That is... a long story. And one not relevant to this conversation.”

The boy failed to see how it wasn’t relevant, but before he could protest the Wildling changed the topic.

“So, your father works for the southern king, but you have a northern name?”

Sam bristled a bit. “A northern bastard name you mean.”

The Wildling’s eyes softened. “I did not wish to insult you. Just wanted to ask about your life.”

Sam went back to plucking the goose, angrily pulling at the white feathers. The scattered down stood out starkly against his black coat. “It’s fine. Everyone talks about it after all. Even at the Wall they whisper ‘bastard’ behind my back.”

Sam was prepared to stew in his own bitterness for a bit, as he had many times before. But then the Wildling put a hand on his shoulder, met his eyes evenly. 

He had kind eyes.

“There is nothing wrong with being a bastard lad. Nothing.”

The Wildling’s voice was intent, sure. Few in Sam’s life had held such an opinion. Despite his father’s frequent assurances, in King’s Landing he’d long felt he was a stain, a humiliation to his parents. That’s why it was better that he’d left them, better that he was up here in the cold. 

The simple kindness in the Wildling’s voice, hearing those words from a person he didn’t even know, was oddly touching. Especially after weeks of taunting at the Watch. Embarrassingly, he could almost feel tears prickling at his eyes. 

He turned away so the Wildling couldn’t see. 

“Aye, I know,” Sam said, hoping his voice didn’t waver. “My parents were always sure to tell me that. Never let me feel any less their son. Even tried to have me legitimized. But then someone at court raised objections and it fell apart.”

The memory was too fresh, still stung. It hadn’t even been half a year since he’d received the rejection. It hurt to know that however much his father loved him, Sam would never be allowed to carry his name. For they shared no blood, so in the eyes of the law he would never truly be his father’s son.

“I’m sorry,” the Wildling said quietly. It even sounded as if he meant it.

Sam laughed once without humor, sharp and hollow. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

They sat in silence, and Sam tried to bring his mind back to the task at hand, but he couldn’t move his mind from the taunts and sneers he’d seen all his life.

“I thought it would be different at the Wall. I know I’m a bastard, people have told me all my life. But everyone said the Wall was a place anyone could rise. Instead it’s like I’m back at home, being constantly teased by Tytos and his gang of fellow brats.”

“Tytos?” the Wildling asked as he finished plucking his bird. Sam winced, he himself still had a long way to go until he finished.

“The Hand of the King’s son,” he said distracted, trying to pluck faster. “He’s a prick. He’s only eight, but thinks he’s above everyone. Even claims the lords will choose him to succeed the King.”

The Wildling was cutting the bird, removing the innards, preparing it to roast over the fire. But Sam still got the feeling he was listening. 

It felt nice to be listened to. His mother had always listened to his troubles, but she was thousands of miles away.

“He always follows me around, calling me a bastard, calling me common, calling my father a dirty oathbreaker and my mother a savage,” Sam continued. “I remember once he followed me around for two weeks singing ‘The Bastard King,’ then going on about it’s the best that I could ever hope to be. He’s the biggest-”

“‘The Bastard King?’ I don’t know that song.” Wolfheart had stopped his preparations, was looking at Sam a bit fiercely.

“It’s just some song about the old King in the North. Full of the usual stuff about how he was wicked and tried to steal his sister’s birthright and murdered his lover as they lie in bed together.”

The Wildling’s face had gone white. He seemed unable to speak.

“Is...is that what they say?” he managed finally.

Sam shrugged. “That’s what they always say about bastards.”

The Wildling sat down heavily. “Would you sing a bit for me?”

He hesitated. “It really is just rubbish-”

“Please,” the Wildling asked, voice thin. “Please I’d like to hear it.”

So Sam tried his best to sing the tune. He was no singer, but his tune was far less harsh than the lyrics. 

It seemed to upset the Wildling greatly. He openly flinched when Sam reached the part about Winterfell “brought low by by-blow.”

After only two and a half verses, Sam stopped. “I don’t remember anymore.”

This was a lie, after the constant weeks of Tytos’s taunting he remembered every word. But neither of them was enjoying the song, and it seemed nonsensical to continue upsetting them both.

The Wildling didn’t speak for several minutes. He stared at his hands, meal preparations forgotten. 

Sam tried to focus on plucking his goose in the suffocating silence.

“That’s quite...something,” the older man choked out finally. 

Sam risked a glance up. The Wildling was still simply sitting on the cave floor, unmoving.

“It’s a stupid song,” Sam offered. 

The Wildling sighed.

“My father always hated it,” Sam continued. “Once he caught Tytos singing it at me, and he actually shouted at him. And father doesn’t shout. Not ever. Tytos never sang it again.”

The Wildling looked up a bit. “What did your father say?” 

“Said that bastards were as good as anyone. Said the song was full of lies, that the old Northern King wasn’t a bastard. But even if he was, it didn’t matter, he was the best king he’d ever met. And then Tytos threatened to tell King Bran father was speaking treason against him for saying that, and father told him to go right ahead. To tell the King what song he’d been singing. The King doesn’t allow that song to be played at court.”

“But people play it anyway,” the Wildling said quietly.

Sam shrugged. “People at court do all kinds of awful things.”

The Wildling snorted in agreement.

“Anyway, I remember Tytos turned all pale. Father said if he ever heard him sing that song again, he’d have him punished, Hand’s son or no.” Sam smiled at the memory.

Oddly, the story seemed to cheer the Wildling a bit too. “Sounds like you have a good father, lad.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “My mother’s wonderful as well. They both knew the old King in the North. Father’s told me stories about fighting the dead with him.”

Sam looked at the Wildling. He still had not continued his work. “Did you know the old King in the North?” Sam asked suddenly. Many Wildlings had fought at the Battle of Winterfell. If the man had known him, it made sense that the song would make him angry.

Wolfheart seemed to shake himself. “No,” he said, picking up the goose again. “No. I just don’t like stories about southern cruelty.”

Sam nodded. “It can be cruel. But it wasn’t so bad. Father had the grandest library I’d ever seen, and he used to find us old stories. Mother would read them to us by the firelight in the evenings, taught us how to write down stories of our own.”

He was overcome, suddenly, with a wave of homesickness. As eager as he’d been to see the lands Beyond the Wall, as friendly as this Wildling was, he still wished he was home, eating his mother’s cooked lamb, listening to her voice. 

“But it’s better,” he said, trying to steady himself. “It’s better that I’m here.”

The Wilding took the finally plucked goose from his hands, began to split it open as well. “Why?” he asked curiously.

Sam ran a stray hand through his hair. Goose down tickled at his nose, and he struggled for a moment not to sneeze. 

After he settled, he still stay silent for several minutes. Watched the Wildling throw the goose over the fire, watched the meat slowly brown.

"You alright, lad?"

Sam nodded.

“Sorry. It's just... I thought it’d be easier,” Sam continued finally. “That's why I left. I though it'd be easier if I wasn’t there. I had other options. Ser Tarth liked me well enough, and Ser Payne mentioned I could squire for him if I wanted. But people always whisper about my parents.”

He paused for a moment, before he said too much. He knew the Wildling likely wouldn’t care, Wildlings cared little for blood and inheritance. But his whole life, so many had told him to be ashamed of what he was.

But the Wildling had been so understanding, so kind, and it was so nice to be heard. Sam decided to press on. 

“My mother...she isn’t noble blood. And by blood I’m only her son, not my father’s. Some people threw a fit when they got married, especially because the King had to declare her a noble so they could do so. Maester’s aren’t supposed to get married anyway, so everyone calls my father an Oathbreaker. I think the King only allowed it so my father’s house wouldn’t die out.”

In the dark, Sam couldn’t see the Wildling as he brought a hand over his face, suspicions confirmed. Sam stammered on.

“I thought with one less scandal on their hands it might not be so hard. I thought things could be better for little Jon.”

“Jon?” The Wildling’s voice was hushed.

“My brother. He’s their trueborn son, he has noble blood. He has a chance at a good life, an honorable life. And his chances are better without me there, weighing him down.”

“Oh lad,” the Wildling said, voice filled with sympathy.

“It’s alright,” Sam insisted, trying to make the best of it. “Truly. I wanted to come. I’ve always wanted to see the far North and meet Wildlings anyway. Because-”

Then Sam flinched and clenched his mouth shut. He never spoke of this to anyone, had been taught by years of scorn not to. For although people knew his mother was common, and many people claimed they no longer saw Wildlings as an enemy of the realm, they were always horribly cruel when they found out. Thought him stupid, barbarain, less. And he knew the man obviously wouldn’t care, but the fear was too deeply ingrained, he couldn’t say it, couldn’t say out loud that - 

“Your mother was Free Folk.”

Sam looked up sharply. “What?”

Wolfheart sighed again. “A Wildling. Your mother was a Wildling.”

He was so _so_ relieved he didn’t have to say it, but - “How did you guess?”

The man shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You wanted to see the land here, where she grew up?”

Sam nodded. “I was always curious about what it was like. Wanted to talk to Wildlings, see if they were anything like people said they were.”

Wolfheart nodded. “Well, do I live up to that reputation?”

“You haven’t eaten me yet, so not quite.”

The Wildling laughed. “Speaking of eating lad, your bird is ready.”

The food was good, roasted meat surprisingly tender. It was one of the better meals Sam had enjoyed since reaching the Wall. 

He ate quickly, devouring the food before it went cold. When he finished he looked at the Wildling, eating slowly, tossing leftover bits to his wolf.

“What’s Free Folk?” Sam asked suddenly.

The Wildling smiled. “It’s what we call ourselves,” he said. “Or did you think we called each other Wildlings?”

Sam bit his lip. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. But what does Free Folk mean?”

“What it sounds like,” the Wildling continued. “It means we’re free. Not bound by unjust laws of the kingdoms. We have no kings, no lords, no bastards. We choose our own leaders and can do as we like. Be who we like. Our lives are our own, they don’t belong to some lord.”

“That sounds…” Sam trailed off. It was hard to describe how amazing such a life sounded. “My mother never told me about that.”

“Well, unfortunately your mother wasn’t exposed to many true Free Folk. Her father didn’t believe in such things.”

“You knew my mother?”

“I believe so. She’s named Gilly, aye?”

Sam nodded eagerly. “Well, technically she’s named Gilevra because father’s family said she needed a grander name if father was to marry her. But no one calls her that.”

The man snorted. “Yes then, I knew your mother.”

“What was she like, when you knew her?”

“She was strong. Kind. Loved you more than anything in this world, and would have done anything for you.”

Sam suddenly felt himself missing her even more. “Truly?”

Wolfheart nodded. “She faced down the White Walkers themselves to keep you safe.”

He scoffed a bit. “You’re making that up.”

“I’m not lad. Truly.”

Sam felt himself suddenly a bit in awe of his mother. “I wish I could ask her about it.”

“Write her and ask her for the tale. Or better yet, see if the Watch will let you travel with recruiters and go see her in King’s Landing.”

The thought cheered him. He would love to speak to her again.

“And when you say you don’t have bastards...that means every child is trueborn?” 

Wolfheart smiled. “It means we treat every child as if they’re trueborn. As I said, we don’t have family names or inheritance. A clan’s children are our common responsibility, and so we raise them in common. All equally important in our eyes.” 

“So,” Sam started slowly, a bit confused. “Do you have a wife then? Children?”

“Children yes. A wife...no.”

“Oh. That must be lonely.”

“Don’t worry about me boy. I’ve someone to share my furs at night.”

Sam had heard that Wildlings - or Free Folk he supposed - didn’t marry the way his people did. He blushed. “Um...what’s her name?”

“Tormund.”

He had never heard of a woman named Tormund, but then much of the Free Folk’s ways seemed strange. “Is she fair and beautiful?”

The man snorted out a quick little laugh. “Yes. Though probably a bit hairy for southern tastes.”

Sam cast his eyes down. Wolfheart caught sight of his embarrassed face and softened.

“I’m sorry lad, I don’t mean to tease. I just...we’re happy. We can be with who we choose up here. It’s a good life.”

Sam nodded. “It sounds lovely. You truly don’t have bastards?”

“We truly don’t. We take care of each other. It’s not like the south."

Sam wondered if he should be insulted at the slight to his home. But since he’d been brutally teased for his bastardry most of his life, he figured Wolfheart’s words were honestly quite fair.

“I wish there weren’t bastards at the Wall,” he said instead. “It was supposed to be different there, but I’m still looked down on.”

His companion shook his head. “Damn Crows,” he said simply. Sam didn’t quite know what this meant, but nodded in agreement anyway.

The older man tossed the rest of his goose carcass to his eager wolf, then got up to stoke the fire.

“I’m surprised,” he said after a few moments, “that you’ve never heard of the term ‘Free Folk’ before. Some of the Watch uses it when they trade with us.”

He shrugged. “I’ve only ever heard people say Wildling.”

Wolfheart sat back down. “Which castle are you stationed at?”

“The Shadow Tower.”

“Ah, that’s one of the castles controlled by the southern kingdoms, isn’t it?”

Sam shrugged again. He knew that the North controlled some castles and the Six Kingdoms controlled others. It was all very dry and political and he found it boring. “I think so.”

The man hummed. “It’s a long journey from the Shadow Tower. Anyone from Castle Black with you?”

Sam shook his head, yawned, laid back. “No, just rangers from the Tower.”

“That’s a hard march. What were you doing all the way out here?”

He stretched his hands out, warmed them by the fire. “I don’t know. I was just brought along to attend the rangers.” 

“You sure you didn’t hear the rangers talking about looking for something? Or maybe looking for someone?”

“No.” It suddenly occurred to Sam that he was alone with a strange Wildling. A strange Wildling who was asking him for information about the Watch.

Sam sat up. “Why all the questions? Are you trying to get me to betray my brothers?”

The Wildling sighed. “No boy-”

But Sam charged forward. “Was that all this was? This whole talk about my life, you just wanted information? Did you even really know my mother?”

“Yes. I knew her name, remember?”

Oh. That’s right, he had. 

“Still-” Sam started.

But Wolfheart held up a hand. “I’m sorry, lad. I was just curious. I’ve got a right to wonder why strange men are traveling through my lands, don’t I?”

Sam huffed. “I suppose.”

“Listen, I promise, no more questions. Or rather, why don’t you ask me questions. Ask me anything you want to know about Free Folk life, and I’ll answer.”

Sam knew he should probably ask something about how many warriors they had or where they made camp or something that would be useful to his brothers. But he looked again at the inked lines below the man’s eye, on his hands, and instead blurted out-

“What do those symbols mean?”

“What, the ones on my face?”

“Or on your hands. I’ve never seen them before. My mother...she doesn’t have those.”

The man smiled. “Well not every clan tattoos skin. Your mother’s family didn’t. And even those that did, in the years before the Great War, Free Folk were often too busy running to keep old traditions. Now though, we’re trying to bring back what we can.”

Sam settled back down, looking at the warm low firelight. “So what do they mean?”

“Lots of things. They tell the story of my life, what battles I fought in, what clan I’m sworn to. The one on my face is for love. My partner has the exact same mark below their eye.”

“That’s wonderful.”

The man grinned. “Glad you think so. And see this one here?” He pointed to a sharp design on his thumb. “This one’s for good luck.”

Sam yawned again. He let the man’s voice wash over him, telling him of a whole different kind of life, and sank into a steady slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam woke early, shaken awake by his strange companion. 

“Time to go lad. I just saw where your Crow friends made camp.”

They packed quickly and made their way out into the snow. Sam wanted to march straight towards his brothers, but Wolfheart told him to be careful. He and his wolf snuck softly through the trees, barely making a sound. 

Suddenly, the man threw up a hand, silently asking Sam to stop. He did, watched the man crouch low, sneaking up to the top of a hill. Sam followed him, copied him.

Finally, he peered over the hilltop. His brothers were there, cleaning up their own camp. Sam, relieved, nearly ran to them. 

A hand on his arm stopped him.

“If you could do me a favor lad,” Wolfheart whispered. “Please don’t tell the Crows I found you. Just say that you found the caves alone and followed their tracks to camp in the morning. If the Crows know I was here, it could cause trouble for me.”

Sam wanted to protest, say his brothers would be grateful. But Sam wasn’t a fool. He knew if they walked into camp together the day would be full of endless questions. Wolfheart would probably be forced to chat with them for hours before the rangers were satisfied. The man likely had better things to do.

Besides, he’d given Sam shelter, food, the first good company he’d had in a long while. Sam owed him a debt.

So he nodded. “Of course.”

The man sighed, relieved. “Thank you lad.”

Sam moved to stand, join the rangers. But Wolfheart held him back again.

“Lad, if in a few years you still feel out of place, know you always have a place with us. With the Free Folk.”

“I couldn’t-”

“I know. But if you decide you want to, we’ll be here. Just make your way to the Antler River and ask for the chieftain. Ask for me.”

Sam nodded, oddly tempted by the offer. He stood, started to make his way down the hill.

“Lad!” 

He turned back. Wolfheart stood by the treeline, his direwolf steady beside him.

“It’s Jon. My given name’s Jon.”

Jon turned and disappeared into the forest. 

Sam made his way down the hill. He could hear his brothers calling him.

“Well fuck me sideways, the damn Tarly bastard made it through the night!”

Sam tried to smile.

Briefly, he looked back to the hilltop.

Only the trees stood there, rustling in the wind.


End file.
